CHAPTER VI.
And while Eric Fortescue unburdens his soul of the heavy sin that has stained it, and bears it, purified and triumphant, through the portals of a new life, there is confusion and rage in the heart of Mr. Trackem as he sits at his business table hastily examining papers and committing them to the safe keeping of a large fire, which consumes each consignment as it is thrown in.
Mr. Trackem’s usually confident and satisfied expression, has given place to one of anxiety and fear. That he is disturbed is evident.
“Curse the fellow!” he keeps muttering to himself; and then a gleam of baffled rage shoots from his cunning eyes.
There comes a knock at the door, a peculiar knock. He is evidently acquainted with it, for he looks up eagerly and calls out, “Come in.”
A woman enters obedient to the summons. She is a woman with a plump, artificial-looking figure, her hair is yellow, and her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows are dark. An unmistakable sign of powder and rouge affords to her cheeks an appearance of pinkness, which all women who decorate themselves in this manner verily believe looks natural and becoming. Alas! if they could only see themselves as others see them! She is overdressed is this woman, with plenty of rings on her fingers and jewellery about her, and her whole air unmistakably stamps her for what she is.
“Well?” inquires Mr. Trackem in an impatient voice, as she comes in. “How you dawdle, Victoire! Were they there?”
“Yes,” she replies at once. “I saw the duke, and a strange gentleman, and the girl Maggie, all go into the house.”
“Did you follow and hear what Eric said?” again asks Mr. Trackem. He never stops the work upon which he is engaged, in spite of his anxiety to hear what she has to say.
“How could I?” she answers peevishly. “I’m not a fairy who can become invisible at will. I saw them go in, that’s all, and then I hurried back here.”
“Curse him!” is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in reply, but he works away harder than ever.
Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table is a great-coat, and on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of gloves, and walking-stick. On the ground below the chair stands a small black business bag. Into this bag Mr. Trackem ever and anon commits a paper from out the heap that he is destroying.
There is a long pause. Then Victoire speaks.
“What are you going to do? I suppose you won’t be safe here now?” she inquires.
“Safe!” he laughs angrily, “rather not. I suppose they’ll have the bloodhounds on me before an hour’s out. No, Victoire, I must cut it.”
“And what’s to become of me?” she asks, somewhat aghast. “You’ll leave me some money, Trackem, and let me know where you are going to?”
“Money! I’ve deuced little left of that now; and as for telling you where I’m going to, I’m not such a fool. Why, you’d blurt it out any moment,” and Mr. Trackem laughs sneeringly.
“But what’s to become of me?” she again inquires.
“Damned if I know!” he replies impatiently. “I don’t suppose you’ll have much trouble in making a living along with some one else, same way as you’ve made it here. You don’t suppose I can saddle myself with you now, and drag you about wherever I go? What a fool you are, Victoire!”
“Then you are going to throw me up?” she asks in a low voice.
“Haven’t I told you I can’t drag you about all over the place?” he answers savagely.
“But you’ll leave me a little money, won’t you?” she says, with a half sob. “I haven’t got a farthing, Trackem.”
“Then you must go and make it, my girl,” he replies coarsely. “You’ll have no difficulty in doing that, and I’ve no money to give you. You know perfectly well that I’ve nigh ruined myself with lending all the money that I did to that Lord Westray, and now he’s dead I can’t get it back. Curse him! I wish I’d never seen him, or had anything to do with that Mrs. de Lara and her daughter. They’ve beat us fair and square, Victoire, even though the daughter be dead. Fair and square.”
“I hate them both,” she bursts out with unreasoning fury. “They are the cause of my misery now. Oh, Trackem! don’t forsake me. I might have had a comfortable, respectable home with Charles, but I threw it up to be with you. What did I do it for but because I loved you? I’m a bad one, no doubt; but at least I loved you, and do love you still. Don’t forsake me! I’ll stop here and put the trackers off the scent, and do all I know how to help you, only promise me you’ll let me know where you are by-and-by, and let me join you again.”
A brilliant thought strikes Mr. Trackem. He has not the slightest intention of doing as she asks, but it will be just as well, he thinks, to lead her to believe that he will. And meantime she may be useful in assisting his escape.
“Well, Victoire,” he says in a more conciliatory voice, “you’re a good girl and a faithful one. Look here, here’s five pounds, and I’ll send you more soon. Stay here as long as you can, and keep the bloodhounds at bay. If the staff get uneasy, you can hoodwink them. When you change your address put it in the Times. And now, my girl, give us a kiss. I must be off. Every moment makes it more risky.”
He has finished burning his compromising papers, has taken up his hat, stick, and gloves, thrown his coat over one arm, and picked up the business bag. He is quite ready to go.
She throws her arms round his neck. Fallen, degraded, wicked as is Victoire Hester, yet she loves this vile, scheming, and contemptible wretch, for whose sake she has steeped her soul in the inky dye of sin, and turned from the path of honour and of truth.
“There now, there now, that’s enough, old girl,” he says hastily, and as she unclasps her hands from about his neck, he steps quickly towards the door and opens it.
“Remember, Victoire, you baulk the trackers,” he says significantly, and then he passes out from her presence, and is gone.
She hears the front door open and shut again, and springs to the window. She can just catch sight of him as he passes along the Crescent. It is her last glimpse, and in spite of his promise to the contrary, she feels that it is. But Victoire Hester for the moment forgets herself. In the presence of the danger which threatens the man she loves, she becomes calm. All trace of his hasty departure must be quickly obliterated. She feels that this is imperatively necessary. Quickly she sets to work, tidies up his table, sets the room neat, and with her own hands collects the burnt paper and carries it off. Then she opens the windows to let out the smell which the burning paper has emitted, heaps more coals on the fire, and moves into Mr. Trackem’s bedroom to arrange his things. In less than an hour all is ship-shape and tidy as usual. There is not a sign of hasty departure.
A few hours later there comes a ring at the front door. Victoire has given instructions that she will see any one that calls. She has often before undertaken this duty in Mr. Trackem’s absence, and the servant sees nothing strange in the order. He therefore admits the new-comers, and shows them into Mr. Trackem’s business room. These two new-comers are men. They are dressed in dark clothes, and they both seat themselves to await his coming.
“Run him in pretty sharp, eh?” observes one of them with a smile, as the door closes on the servant.
“Haven’t got him yet, Bush,” retorts the other quietly. Inspector Truffle is not of so sanguine a temperament as is Inspector Bush.
“As good as though,” replies Inspector Bush confidently, but he stops abruptly as he hears steps approaching. Again the door of Mr. Trackem’s business room opens. Victoire enters. There is blank disappointment on Inspector Bush’s face. Victoire sees it as she fixes her dark eyes full upon him.
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she says quietly; “you wished to see Mr. Trackem? I am sorry to say he is away, but I expect him back the day after to-morrow. His head clerk is ill too, but I can do anything for you in Mr. Trackem’s place. I always attend to his affairs in his absence.”
She smiles good-naturedly on the blank, nonplussed detectives. She seems to give her attention especially to Inspector Bush. Inspector Truffle rises to the occasion.
“Thank you, madam,” he says briskly, “but I fear the business we have come about can only be transacted with Mr. Trackem. The fact is, madam, we came to settle an account that we owe him, and which would require Mr. Trackem’s signature to be of any use as a receipt. And the worst of it is, we are going away, and shall not be able to call again.”
He fixes a piercing glance upon her as he speaks, but Victoire is equal to the occasion. She does not believe a word of Inspector Truffle’s statement, and divines perfectly well what his business is.
She assumes a disappointed air as she exclaims,
“It is a great pity. But what is to be done? I do not think I can possibly get Mr. Trackem back before the day after to-morrow. However, I will telegraph to him, and will send you his reply. Will you favour me with your address?”
Here is a poser. Victoire sees it, and inwardly chuckles. But again Inspector Truffle attempts to uphold the fair fame of detective smartness.
“Certainly, madam,” he replies, as he takes out his card-case and hands her a card therefrom, upon which she reads the address of a well-known firm of solicitors.
She assumes a most deferential manner.
“I think Mr. Trackem will make every effort to be here by to-morrow. I will telegraph at once, and unless you hear to the contrary, will you kindly call on Mr. Trackem at the same hour to-morrow, if you please, gentlemen?”
Mr. Truffle is triumphant.
“We will,” he answers. “Well, thank you, madam. Good-afternoon to you.”
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she replies with admirably feigned regret ringing in her voice.
Inspectors Truffle and Bush betake themselves to the comfortable hansom that awaits them. As it rattles along, the former breaks silence.
“We managed that capitally,” he says with a chuckle. “Quite took her in. The chink of money soon made her open her ears. Bet you it brings Mr. Trackem home pretty quick.”
“Yes,” answers Inspector Bush. “I didn’t like the look of the woman when she first came in, but she took the bait readily enough. Poor things, those sort of women. No match for the likes of us, eh?”
Inspector Truffle has had more experience than Inspector Bush, and doesn’t agree there. But he thinks, as he drives along, that anyhow this one is quite taken in.
Is she, though? You’ll find out your mistake, inspector, when you call to-morrow with Inspector Bush at the same hour!
